


A Lover's Embrace

by ThebanSacredBand



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21791434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThebanSacredBand/pseuds/ThebanSacredBand
Summary: Romeo Montague is going to be the death of him. Not literally, of course; the boy could barely hurt a fly. But with his thick brown hair and the twinkle in his eyes, Mercutio Escalus could never hope not to be in love with him.
Relationships: Mercutio/Romeo Montague
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	A Lover's Embrace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [V_V_lala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_V_lala/gifts).



Romeo Montague is going to be the death of him. Not literally, of course; the boy could barely hurt a fly. But with his thick brown hair and the twinkle in his eyes, Mercutio Escalus could never hope not to be in love with him.

Mercutio has loved Romeo almost as long as he has known him, long before either of them were old enough to know what love is. Their mothers were childhood friends, and they were raised almost as brothers, along with Romeo’s cousin Benvolio. And they loved each other like brothers, all scabbed knees and pulled hair and shoving in the courtyard. They were brothers, until they weren’t, because they were thirteen and Mercutio’s heart started beating differently when Romeo came into view the morning after a sudden growth spurt, slightly gangling and unsure of his footing, but with a cocksure grin that melted whatever it was that Mercutio had kept his heart hidden in for so long.

And he had gritted his teeth and pretended that nothing had changed, and stared unseeing at the ceiling late into the night as he tried to work out was on earth was _wrong_ with him. This was a _sin_. Man shalt not lie with man… The bible had been drilled into him from an early age and now here he was, a sinner without even wanting to be.

He woke up dreaming of Romeo and breathing hard, and it was all he could do to stop himself from crying.

This was years ago now, though, and Mercutio has just about come to terms with the inner conflict of his younger teens. He was who he was, and he could not change it. He loved Romeo more than he loved God, and so he had chosen the former. Maybe he would go to hell; at least here he can live free and basking in the eyes of his beloved.

Romeo has no idea, of course. What could Mercutio possibly say? “I dream about you at night”? “Every time you smile, it’s like my heart will burst out of my chest”? “If I were to act on my feelings for you I would almost certainly be executed”?

No. It is better that he does not know. Besides, it is easy for Mercutio to tell that his feelings are not reciprocated. He can see it in the way that Romeo’s eyes follow girls as they pass him the street, the way he turns bright red every time they notice.

(They notice every time. Romeo has never been subtle).

Instead, he shows his love for Romeo by staying by his side for as long in the day as is possible, by laughing at the jokes which he tells, which Mercutio himself cannot help but find hilarious, but which Benvolio and anyone else nearby will merely roll their eyes at.

(Perhaps Mercutio is not subtle either.)

(But then, Romeo is oblivious.)

(Benvolio knows. He had dragged Mercutio aside one day when Romeo had been summoned to his father, and had told him what he saw, plain as day. Mercutio had been terrified, but there was only sympathy in his friend’s eyes, and he had sworn not to tell anyone, anyone at all, even Romeo. Especially not Romeo.)

And so Mercutio shows his love and hides his heart, and he swears to himself that he will do anything, anything at all, to keep the smile that lights the earth hung on Romeo’s face.

Most days, it is easy to keep him laughing. Romeo normally has the sort of personality that makes every cloud have a silver lining. It makes Mercutio feel lighter, being with him, seeing him light up at the slightest thing.

But of course, no one can be happy all the time, and Romeo is no different. He has periods where all he want to do is wander at the edge of town, alone.

Times like this are almost always when an uninterested girl has caught his eye. Times like this tear Mercutio apart.

He wants to help. He wants to talk to Romeo and make him smile and brighten his day. He wants to give Romeo time to heal as he needs to, but let him know that he will be there, waiting, when he is ready to come back to himself. He wants to tear Romeo to pieces, to tell him how much it hurts every time he mentions _some girl_ who he _barely knows_ when Mercutio is _right here_. He’s right here.

If he had more energy, he’d feel sorry for Benvolio, stuck between his two closest friends, each lost over the heart of someone who would never love them back.

But he doesn’t have more energy. He feels lost and lethargic and… God. He doesn’t know how to _be_.

Benvolio lays a comforting arm around his shoulder, and Mercutio curls into the shorter boy. They are hidden away in Mercutio’s room, where no-one can see the gentle affection that could so easily be interpreted the wrong way.

(And wouldn’t that be ironic, if he were arrested on the charge of loving the wrong boy).

Romeo is he happy-go-lucky one, and Mercutio is the wild one, and Benvolio is the sensible one, but it is Benvolio’s idea to go to the Capulet’s party uninvited. The younger Montagues generally try to stay away from the generations-old vendetta between the houses, but Tybalt fought Benvolio in the streets earlier, and Benvolio has decided that some form of revenge would be the best way to get both Romeo and Mercutio out of their heads.

Mercutio prepares for the party perhaps a little _too_ well. By which he means, he’s already almost drunk before they even meet up to go. It was foolish of him, to be face to face with Romeo and his unrequited love with his inhibitions quashed. And Romeo is complaining about his Rosaline already.

And then Mercutio is talking and talking, saying nothing but too much, with no meaning but so much _feeling_. And then Romeo is grasping his shoulder, almost shaking him out of whatever reverie he dreamt himself into. Their faces are far too close.

And then they are closer.

Romeo’s lips on his feel like a promise, and a betrayal.

He pushes himself back, immediately, ranting about dreams, stumbling more that he should have, playing it off as another drunken revelry as if he could possibly be _happy_. And Benvolio manages to drag Romeo away and into the party. Mercutio feels sick to his stomach.

He still follows.

The party is awful. He should have known it would be a bad idea, but any opportunity to draw his happy Romeo back out of the misery of his mind was one that he was unable to miss. The mission is successful, but so, so, much worse.

Mercutio is hiding in the corner of the room, his eyes stuck on Romeo. It hurts that he is staring at Rosaline, who has made it perfectly clear that she has no interest in him. It hurts when his eyes become glued to a different young woman, petite and pale and everything Mercutio could never be. And it hurts, God, it hurts _so much_ when the pair meet up behind a pillar, staring into each-other’s eyes and palm-to-palm.

More wine, then. More wine until he doesn’t have to think any more.

When Benvolio finally drags Mercutio out of the party when they’ve lightly overstayed their welcome, Romeo is nowhere to be found.

He’s gone home, Mercutio tries to tell himself, but it sounds fake to his own ears. Romeo will be we that girl, somewhere, back inside the party or else following her home. He’s a man in love – that much was obvious from across the room. It’s an expression Mercutio knows well. He sees it every day in the mirror.

He starts calling for Romeo, taunting him with Rosaline’s name even though she was this afternoon’s problem. He enjoys it, letting out all the frustration he feels as the wine circles his head. Then suddenly he feels terrible and awful and _selfish_ for trying to draw Romeo out and away from the girl and back to _him_.

Self-disgust burning his very _soul_ , it is easy for Benvolio to drag him away. They end up in the Montague’s house, Mercutio curled up on the couch in Benvolio’s room: he could not bring himself to go home. Benvolio doesn’t say anything, but worry is written in the lines of his brows.

He sleeps, eventually, somehow.

He doesn’t feel better in the morning, when Romeo reappears swanning around in love.

He spends the day in a sort of daze. Romeo is happy, and he should be glad he is happy. But it’s worse, it’s so much _worse_. Why can’t he just be _grateful_? Why can’t he just be _pleased_ that Romeo has found someone who loves him back?

But he can’t, he just can’t. How can he be happy when his heart is being pulled into pieces with every dreamy glance, every lovesick sigh.

And _God_ , how can he be so selfish? All he’s ever wanted is for Romeo is to be happy. And now he is, all he can think is ‘Not like this. Let him be happy but not like this.’

Maybe he gets little tipsy. Maybe. Benvolio doesn’t stop him.

Romeo disappears, and reappears again, smile bright.

Tybalt is hot on his heels.

Romeo refuses to react to Tybalt’s hard words, but Mercutio, Mercutio cannot stop himself. He _hates_ Romeo right now, but he _loves_ him, and no one gets to talk about him that way.

They fight. Hot heads and hot words and hot steel. Romeo flits between them, calling them his brothers, begging them to stop. He gets more and more desperate, and Mercutio can’t help but get distracted by how close he is, how he can’t defend himself.

His focus slips, and so does his parry, and so does Tybalt’s blade, into Mercutio’s side.

His eyes widen.

It hurts, but not so much as he might have thought. It’s a shock, more than anything. His sword clatters to the ground, his hands scrabbling at the quickly darkening fabric. He takes a step backwards, then again, then he tries to take another but he’s on the floor. The impact jolts him.

There is a noise, high-pitched, whining. He can’t tell if it’s in his head. It’s all he can hear.

A blurry figure appears in front of him. He blinks, and Romeo comes into view, looking alarmed and worried and _something_.

Mercutio can’t stand that expression on his Romeo’s face. No. Romeo should be happy, should never have an expression like this marring his beautiful face. He reaches a hand up, to smooth out the lines that mar his perfect forehead. His hand shakes, and the lines are replaced by a smear of red, red blood.

Mercutio opens his mouth, trying to say something, anything. He’s always so full of witticisms, can always make Romeo laugh. Instead, all that comes out is a strangled choke.

Romeo is above and below and all around him, cradling his body, and Mercutio doesn’t remember getting into this position. One hand is laying over Romeo’s arm around his shoulders. The other is limp on his chest.

There are words, now, puns and curses and who knows what, because Mercutio has never really had any control about what comes out of his mouth. But all that is running through his head is Romeo Romeo Romeo Romeo Romeo.

Someone – Benvolio? – is trying to get him up and inside and away, but Mercutio clenches his fist, gripping Romeo’s sleeve with a strength that he does not have. If he is to die here, he wants it, no, he _needs_ it to be in Romeo’s arms.

“I… I _love_ you, Romeo.” He splutters out, and his voice his fading and the pain in his side is getting worse, but he can’t leave this world without Romeo _knowing_.

“I know, I know.” Romeo says, a hand running through Mercutio’s hair like a lover, and Mercutio doesn’t know how to process this. “I love you too, Mercutio.” Romeo loves him? He _loves_ him? Why didn’t he say anything, what’s happening, how can Romeo- “You’re my best friend, my brother.”

Oh.

If Mercutio had had any energy left within him to groan, he would have. But there is the taste of blood in his mouth now, and his chest is heaving. He forces what strength he has into his arm, moving it up to cup Romeo’s face. Rubs a thumb against Romeo’s cheek, traces his lips. Romeo’s eyes widen in surprise. Mercutio tries to smile.

“By God, Romeo, I’m in love with you.” Mercutio says. Tries to say. Instead, his chest is racked by heavy coughs. He spasms involuntarily, feels Romeo’s arms tighten around him.

Mercutio dies feeling as though he is embraced by a lover.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide! Hope you enjoyed!  
> I've never really considered Mercutio as in love with Romeo before, but I have to say I really really got into it, and had a good time writing this :)


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